


it's just a boy

by crownsandbirds



Category: Persona 5
Genre: Character Study, Domestic Fluff, Established Relationship, Kissing, M/M, Making Out, brief mention of eating issues
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-11
Updated: 2020-08-11
Packaged: 2021-03-06 06:54:31
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,609
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25845397
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/crownsandbirds/pseuds/crownsandbirds
Summary: The matter of the question here, he knows, is that Akira doesn't comprehend just how intensely he changed Akechi's life.
Relationships: Akechi Goro/Kurusu Akira
Comments: 9
Kudos: 199





	it's just a boy

The feeling of his bare palms on top of the bedsheets makes Akechi's lips twitch in distaste.

He is not used to this, to the sheer, painful vulnerability of this - without the barrier of his gloves, everything his hands touch feels realer, closer, warmer; and he’s clutching Akira’s shoulders, touching his face, caressing his soft hair. His broad, strong back, his waist, his hips where they are pressed flush to Akechi’s. All of this is so novel, so brand new, no matter how many times they do it. One would think Akechi an untouched virgin, as if he hasn't used his looks for his personal achievements and goals many times before - but Akira. With Akira, there are no gloves, no unfamiliar press of chest to back, no closing off his mouth to hide sounds of pleasure. With him, everything is about looking eye to eye, shared body warmth, tongue kisses with open mouths so Akechi is forced to sigh satisfaction and moan against his lips, so Akira knows exactly what he's doing to him and how intensely. He hates it, hates how, like this, Akira can figure out his sensitive spot just under his ear, and the other one under his jaw, and his tendency of whimpering when he's manhandled. Like this, there's no mask behind which to hide. He's not the Detective Prince, he's not the prettiest boy in Japan, he's not the son of the prime minister, he's simply Goro Akechi, pinned under a boy who knows exactly how to drive him insane. 

Above him, Akira smiles. 

"You really dislike this, don't you," Akira says, and Akechi turns his face away, scowling.

"Yes," he grits out. 

Akira continues to smile, and he looks so very  _ fond _ . He caresses Akechi's hair where it falls in front of his face, and his touch is slow with tenderness. No one has ever touched Akechi like this. He's only ever been touched with desire, but the crude, malicious side of desire, that type of wanting that made him feel as if the other person wanted him badly enough that they would rather have him dead. Akira touches him as if he needs him to survive. 

And Akechi clings on just the same. 

It's just making out, he tries to tell himself. It's just kissing. It's just a boy. 

Akira wraps his arm around Akechi's waist, and pulls him up, and presses their bodies flush together, and Akechi sighs out his name, and he can't lie to himself like this. There is only truth between their lips. 

-

The matter of the question here, he knows, is that Akira doesn't comprehend just how intensely he changed Akechi's life. 

Akira teaches him things, many things; teaches him how it feels like to linger in bed in lazy Saturday mornings, how it feels to take the time necessary to appreciate a decent cup of coffee instead of just washing exhaustion down his throat with bitter, awful caffeine, how it feels to spend time doing nothing but kissing and paying half-mind to whatever is on TV, how it feels like to eat junk food at cheap stores late at night. 

Their dates are more often at cheap hamburger places in Shibuya than they are in fancy restaurants, and Akechi enjoys it,  _ somehow,  _ he enjoys the sugary high of soft drinks and the greasy, salty taste of french fries, enjoys spending time at a McDonald's, 3 in the morning, waiting for ice cream before they head back to crash at the Leblanc. Under Akira's ever-vigilant, gorgeous eyes, he cannot skip meals, he cannot excuse himself to go throw up everything that he's eaten in the bathroom, he cannot get off with a milkshake or a glass of water in place of a real meal - and he gains weight, and he can't see his ribs when he looks at himself in the mirror anymore, and Akira kisses him anyway, and wants him, and yearns for him. 

His grades drop. It's inevitable. He spends more time at Akira's attic bedroom than anywhere else, these days, and his friends are a lively bunch, loud and colorful, shoving at each other and ordering pizza and hollering at the small TV, and Akechi could just go downstairs and put on his very expensive headphones and study at one of the booths in the cafeteria, as he used to do in the beginning - he knows Sojiro won't ask questions, and won't bother him, and he could get some work done while he blocks out the noise with classical music and ignores the rowdy group upstairs - but it's not before long until he finds himself actually laughing sometimes at Ryuji's stupid jokes, and leaning in Akira's touch whenever they sit close together, and treating these people as friends, as if someone like him is allowed to have friends. Akira touches him all the time, one arm around his shoulders or one hand atop his thigh or pressing at the back of his neck, and it's so easy to let him, it's so easy to smile when curious fingers undo the clasps that keep his gloves tight around his wrists. He has never smiled so much before in his life. He has never ignored his studying so often. His grades drop. He doesn't care.  _ He doesn't care _ . 

He lets his hair grow out more, ties it back with a ponytail, lets Akira play with it. He loses a button from one of his fancy suits at the attic. He forgets books at Leblanc, and they end up staying there, on Akira's shelves, on top of his own books. A few of their clothes get mixed together. Akira steals his gloves one day, and Akechi is so  _ mad _ . They have stupid arguments over trashy movies they watch on the movie theater at Shibuya, over Akira going to that dingy clinic at Yongen-Jaya and Akechi being worried about his well-being and faking his worry over insults at  _ the companies that Akira decides to keep _ , over which Dostoevsky novel is the best, over Akira's penchant for reading stupid self-help books, over crossword puzzles. They have a memorable argument when Akechi drinks a cup of hot chocolate for the first time since he can remember and refuses to acknowledge that it's one of the best things he's ever tasted in his life. 

"Just admit that you enjoyed it, goddamit, you drank the whole cup," Akira says, and Akechi shoots back some snarling at him, and even in this he's having fun. Even this is enjoyable. 

It takes Akechi a long time to admit that it feels like his entire life has been turned upside down by this gorgeous boy. Just a boy, and nothing else is the same. Just a boy. 

It takes him an even longer time to admit he's in love. To understand that this, the domesticity, the pettiness, the jealousy, the yearning, the wanting, the desperate desire that claws at his lungs, the stupid shounen anime marathons, the nights spent with Akira holding him and caressing his hair as he pants his way out of nightmares, those early-days arguments when Akira found the scars on the insides of his wrists and on the curve of his hips and shoved him against a wall and told him to  _ stop _ , the kisses before they head out for their respective schools, the birthday gifts, the  _ anniversary  _ gifts, all of this is love. Real-people love. It takes him _ so long _ to see himself as a real person, in love, loved in return, wanted, _ alive.  _

It's alright. As he learns, Akira is patient. 

-

Playing chess has taken a position of much more importance in his mind ever since he and Akira started this - agreement. Contract. Relationship.  _ Something _ .

Before, it was merely a way of humiliating those who thought they were smarter than him, another way of ascertaining his superiority, amongst his looks, his grades, his fame. He kept count of the number of consecutive victories he had. He used this weapon as readily as he wielded his sabre. Naturally, and elegantly, and beautifully. It was a way of impressing others, a way of showing them just how perfect he was, how above them.

With Akira, he counts himself lucky if he wins two times in a row. 

It's not the fierce, silent type of competition he would have expected with someone so smart - Akira seems to enjoy the time with him far more than he enjoys the act of winning itself, and suddenly they find themselves laughing over chess boards, forgetting which pieces belong to whom, getting the strategies confused in their heads. It's not competition anymore; it's plain, outright fun, something they can both delight in together. 

-

Akira makes him coffee for all of his all-nighters, and the worst part is that it always tastes insufferably good. 

-

It's during their invasion in a new Palace that Akechi gets surprised by an enemy and falls to the floor after a suddenly intense blow, and Akira leaves his battle position and rushes to him immediately, this stupid, beautiful, wonderful boy -

"Are you okay?" he demands, holding Akechi, and Akechi pushes him away, as much as he wants to pull him closer. "Don't go dying on me."

"I do hope you think higher of me than  _ that _ ," he says, flipping his hair to the side. He hopes Akira won't point out the small wound bleeding on his forehead. "In fact, I am a little insulted that you think I'd get hurt with something so minimal.."

Akira smiles, so immensely fond, so  _ relieved _ . 

Akechi gets up, brushes himself off, but doesn't hide his smile when Akira slides his hand to entwine their fingers together. 


End file.
